


Something Unfixable

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Poetry, TW: Drug Abuse, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was silent for a bit, my addict brother’s limp body laying between us as if he knew he’d be a driving force of commonality between you and I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Unfixable

When he began showing up to Christmas dinners, paler than usual, rolling his sleeves all the way down and swirling his potatoes in with his peas, I knew it was something unfixable.

I didn’t say anything.

For too many years, he’d been much too far from the pirate-hat wearing toddler I loved, an unrecognizable brooding adolescent that locked himself in his room and composed melancholies on his violin.

So, naturally, when I learned he’d been found strung out in an alleyway, muttering about bees and heartbreak, I swore to myself I’d never underestimate the power of freedom. 

But it wasn’t freedom that brought him, choking on lost breath and high off his arse, to my doorstep.

It was you. 

And concern clouded your eyes like the druggy grime in his when you pushed him inside without a word, setting him on my couch as he arched his back and let his numb fingers slide from your shoulders.

Rooted to the spot and witlessly terrified for my brother’s life, I stood awkwardly as you screamed at me, asking and asking again if I was Mycroft Holmes.

When I finally mumbled yes, you demanded me to get water, ice, cloth, anything to help him breathe, bring him back.

I’d gone over the symptoms tens of thousands of times, just in case my assumptions proved true: sleepiness, muscle spams, blue tinge to the mouth and fingernails.

But it wasn’t as easy as an educational film for teenagers, nor was it anything like what I’d prepared for.

So I came back into the living room, where you were cradling your face in your hands, my brother lolling his head against our grandmother’s embroidered pillow, drifting off.

I forgot to breathe when you took the rag and cup of water from my hands.

You dabbed his sweaty forehead with damp coolness, and I wasn’t even sure if you thought it would help. 

I remember asking you why you didn’t take him to the hospital instead.

Head turned away from me, a sigh crossed your shoulders as if you probably should have thought of that. 

Instead of answering me, you asked me if I knew he was an addict.

I said I had my suspicions. 

You then asked me why I didn’t do anything, warn anybody.

Sitting now at the foot of the couch, echoing deep sighs as if he’d help him find his breath, I looked at you.

Your hair was salt and pepper and damp from worried sweat, your mouth was taut and angry at me, your jaw clenching as if nothing had ever scared you like this.

It was wrong of me to think you looked beautiful like that, and he must’ve hated the lack of attention, because he twitched his foot against my leg mindlessly, pulling me back.

Considering you left your dark eyes on me while I looked down at his ghostly form, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one inappropriately timing my interest.

Answering you so softly then, I told you that I was mad at him for pushing himself away from me, so I didn’t want to involve myself in his life.

I asked you if that was stupid.

You said it was.

But you also said you understood.

It was silent for a bit, my addict brother’s limp body laying between us as if he knew he’d be a driving force of commonality between you and I.

Years later, and it’s still the case. 

So, with one hand on his calf, the other curled into a tight fist, I finally asked your name.

My brother’s savior, and perhaps mine, you then gave me my first glimpse of that unseemly smile I’ve come to love.

“Greg Lestrade,” you said.


End file.
